“I went back to make sure he was dead. And then I cut his throat. I did it to keep him quiet in death.” Cornelius spoke this part with his eyes closed, so that he would not have to see Judy’s reaction. “It was a kind of magic I heard from my mother. Wharf was a devil. Blackhearted. Mean.
He knew about you and me. He said he’d turn me over to a bounty hunter. Tell Stanwood. Paint them a picture, he said. Like a bear covering a doe, he said. And worse.”
He groaned. “But that’s not the worst I did, Judy. I am a sorry man. I am a coward,” he said, ignoring her attempts at hushing him. “I used to tell myself I stayed away from you to protect you from the gossip. If Wharf knew about us, I figured it was only a matter of time before others knew.
And you would be ruined.
“But that wasn’t the half of it,” he said. “The truth is, I was afraid on my own account. They kill us like dogs, like nothing. They need no excuse. And you were a fine excuse.”
Tears leaked through his lashes. “But worst is how I treated you. How I never said your name. I knew what you wanted of me, to tell you things. To say your name. I did not even give you that. You were so fine to me, and I was too afraid to tell you. To love you.”
Breathless and worn out by his confession, Cornelius fell into a deep and peaceful sleep that gave Judy a few hours of hope. But the fever returned in the morning, worse than before. With it came waves of pain that he could not beat back without screaming. Easter stopped in but did not stay long.
By the time the afternoon light started to fade, Cornelius was at his weakest. Judy sat beside him, her head in her hands, until she felt his touch on her knee.
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“Talk to me,” he whispered.
She wiped her eyes and rallied. “I was glad to see that you took in the dog, the tan. Oliver says she’s been with you for some time now. She’s still here, you know. Over there by the fire, watching. She’s a nice one, I can tell. Reminds me of my Grey, a little. Did you think of that?”
Cornelius smiled behind his closed eyes.
Judy took his hand and told him about her friendship with Martha Cook, the secret of her illness, and of the Judge’s decency. She recounted Easter’s camel story and described Harriet’s cooking in detail. All through that short winter sunset and deep into the night, she talked. She confessed, to herself as well as to Cornelius, that last summer’s work had been too much for her. Her neck and legs still ached from the long days. She was too old for it.
Judy paused for a moment and stared into the candle.
The silence in the room startled her and she cried,
“Cornelius?”
His eyes fluttered open and met hers.
“Should I go on?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Judy said. But then she began, “When I was a little girl, I used to think that my sister, Priscilla, could do anything.” She was surprised at what her memory washed up, especially since she had never spoken about her childhood. “Priscilla was ten years older than me. She was the pretty one, and the only mother I knew since ours died giving birth to me.
“I don’t remember much from those days,” Judy said.
“I had a doll with a red dress. Priss taught me how to read.
She hogged the blankets at night. And then she left.
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“I think she ran off with a man and I can’t imagine that it ended well or she would have come for me. Or that’s what I told myself. Pa never spoke of her again.
“He broke his leg when I was eight, which is when he bound me out to service, so I’d learn housekeeping. I went to Mrs. Clarkson first. She was a widow with twin sons, thick-waisted boys, walleyed and shy as a couple of rabbits.